The Olivia Academy courtyard lay in ruins. Craters pocked the ground, walls were cracked, and the air carried the acrid stench of venom and scorched stone. The Gate-born beast that had ripped through reality hours ago was gone, nothing left of it but black dust scattering in the wind.
But no one was celebrating.
All eyes were fixed on one person.
Peterson Olivia.
The boy who had been mocked his entire life for his weakness now stood in the middle of the battlefield, a cracked practice sword in his hand, faint white light still pulsing through his veins. The glow was fading, but the memory of what it had done lingered. Everyone had seen it — how he had stopped the beast's strike with nothing but his will, how raw power had burst from him and forced the monster back.
And no one understood it
"What was that?" one Hunter muttered, his armor scorched. "That wasn't any Olivia technique I've seen."
"It felt… unnatural," another whispered, edging away.
Tom stepped forward, his dark aura coiling like smoke around him. His eyes locked onto Peterson, burning with hate.
"You all saw it," Tom growled. "That wasn't family power. That wasn't training. That—" his hand trembled with fury, "—was something else. A curse wearing his skin."
"Tom—" Ezekiel began, his cane striking the ground to silence him.
But Tom refused to be quiet. He turned to the crowd, pointing at his younger brother with venom in his voice.
"He's dangerous. That… thing inside him, it's not human. He's going to destroy us all if we let him live among us."
Whispers spread like wildfire. Hunters glanced at Peterson with suspicion. Some Supporters muttered prayers under their breath. Even the servants watching from the mansion gates looked afraid.
Peterson's chest tightened. He wanted to shout back, to say he didn't understand it either, that he hadn't asked for any of this. But his throat locked, the weight of their stares suffocating him.
Ezekiel's cane struck again, harder this time. The old man's voice cut through the noise.
"Enough!"
The courtyard fell silent.
"My grandson is no curse," Ezekiel said coldly, his eyes narrowing on Tom. "If his power is strange, then it is our duty to understand it — not fear it."
Tom sneered. "Or maybe you already knew, old man. Maybe you've been hiding it from us this whole time."
For a moment, Ezekiel said nothing. Then he turned to Peterson. "Come with me. We'll find the truth of this power."
That night, Peterson sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his reflection in the cracked blade he had refused to put down. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, his face pale, but it was his eyes that unsettled him most. Even in the dim candlelight, they shimmered faintly, as if some hidden fire was alive within them.
He replayed the battle again and again in his mind. The way his sword had stopped the monster's claw. The invisible force that had burst out of him. The fear in everyone's eyes afterward.
"Why me?" he whispered to himself. "Why now?"
He pressed his hand against his chest, feeling the faint pulse of the strange energy still lingering there. It terrified him. But it also… thrilled him. For the first time in his life, he hadn't been powerless.
A knock came at his door.
"Peterson?"
It was Sarah, one of the Supporters. She stepped inside, carrying a tray of food. "You didn't eat," she said softly.
"I'm not hungry."
She set the tray down anyway. For a moment, she lingered, shifting nervously.
"You saved us," she said finally. "That monster… we wouldn't have survived without you."
Peterson looked away. "The others don't see it that way. To them, I'm a threat."
Sarah hesitated, then shook her head. "Maybe. Or maybe you're something new. People fear what they can't explain."
She left him with those words. Alone again, Peterson lay back in bed, but sleep didn't come easily.
When it did, he found himself floating in endless white.
The silence was heavy, almost holy. And then he felt it — a presence. Ancient. Watching.
"Who are you?" Peterson called out.
A figure emerged, tall and robed in flowing light. A woman, her face veiled, her voice echoing like distant bells.
"You are mine," she whispered. "My chosen."
Peterson's chest tightened. "Chosen? For what? What am I?"
"You are the key," the voice said. "The one to walk between."
Her hand reached out toward him. He reached back, desperate for answers. But before their hands met, the dream shattered into blackness.
Peterson jolted awake, heart pounding. Sweat dripped down his temple as fragments of her words burned into his mind: my chosen… the key… walk between.
Before he could make sense of it, a crash shook the mansion.
He grabbed his sword and raced downstairs, his feet pounding against the marble floors.
In the courtyard, Tom stood amidst shattered training dummies, his venom seeping into the stones, corroding them to ash. His aura burned brighter than ever, wild and unstable.
"You think you're special now, Peterson?" Tom spat, whirling to face him. His smile was twisted, hateful. "You think because of some accident, you can stand equal to me?"
Peterson raised his sword, though his hands trembled. "I never asked for this."
Tom's aura flared. "Then I'll burn it out of you myself."
Venom exploded from his palm, arcing toward Peterson. Instinct took over. The strange light surged again, wrapping around his body like a shield. The attack split apart, dissolving harmlessly around him.
Gasps rang out from the few Hunters who had gathered at the sound of the crash.
Tom's sneer deepened. "See? He's not one of us. He's something else. And I'll prove it by tearing him apart."
For the first time, Peterson didn't flinch. He tightened his grip on his sword, the glow in his veins answering his resolve.
"If you want to fight me, Tom… then come."
The courtyard trembled as the two brothers faced each other, the storm of their rivalry threatening to erupt.